


Wolves and Girls

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 08:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6847924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s no bedding ceremony at the Wall like those Sansa remembers from her girlhood, or at least there isn’t one for her and Tormund.. The feast is humble, the dancing lively, the whole affair heartening in a way Sansa didn’t expect. She hadn’t come here for another husband, after all, and part of her thinks she should despair that this is what she’s come to. But as she watches Tormund – her husband now, and how strange that is to think herself wed to a Wildling – speak with Jon, the respect and trust between them are palpable and for the first time in as long as she can remember, Sansa feels almost safe. Almost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolves and Girls

**Author's Note:**

> For the valar_morekinks kinkmeme prompt: Sansa x Tormund, taking the Alys Karstark route, Showverse - Sansa gets thrown into another girl's storyline again and ends up having to marry Tormund for reasons.
> 
> **Note: This is set in show ‘verse, but I’ve kept it vague so it’s up to the reader to decide whether this is a scenario post-Ramsay marriage or whether that marriage never happened, whichever makes you comfortable.**

She should be afraid of him. He’s the biggest man she’s ever seen who isn’t named Clegane. And unlike the Hound, everything about him is outsized: his body, his beard, his voice, his laugh. His laugh is so exuberant and so frequent that it’s easy to forget he’s killed near as many men as Sandor ever did.

There’s no bedding ceremony at the Wall like those Sansa remembers from her girlhood, or at least there isn’t one for her and Tormund.. The feast is humble, the dancing lively, the whole affair heartening in a way Sansa didn’t expect. She hadn’t come here for another husband, after all, and part of her thinks she should despair that this is what she’s come to. But as she watches Tormund – her husband now, and how strange that is to think herself wed to a Wildling – speak with Jon, the respect and trust between them are palpable and for the first time in as long as she can remember, Sansa feels almost safe. Almost.

“He’ll give you a good tumble in bed, that one.” Val is at her side, pushing a goblet of wine into her hand.

“Will he?” Sansa murmurs, holding the glass but not drinking. “Is that something you have reason to know?”

Val laughs. She’s so lovely, lovelier than Sansa ever thought a Wildling woman could be. Even Margaery Tyrell’s beauty would dim a bit next to Val’s. “I haven’t fucked him, if that’s what you mean. But we Freefolk have little in the way of privacy when it comes to such matters, and even less need of it. You’ve no need to be jealous, if that’s your concern.”

“Jealous?” Sansa could laugh herself, but for the memories that always live just below the surface, memories of pain and violence and hatred. “No. Not jealous.” Val waits, saying nothing. Sansa’s grateful for it. The times she’s been left to take things at her own pace and on her own terms these past years could be numbered on a single hand.

“Nervous,” she says finally. Then, wanting to be honest, even if only for herself, “Scared.”

“You’ve been hurt.” Val’s words aren’t a question. Part of Sansa is dismayed that it’s so clear, on her face, in her manner. Part of her is relieved that she doesn’t need to speak of all she’s been through. Val looks out at the merriment, her eyes following the Black Brothers cautiously, the Wildlings – or the Freefolk, Sansa should say, if she’s to be one of them – with more warmth.

“He’s a good man,” she says at last. “A good bit more civilized than those kneelers you were on the run from, if you want my opinion on it. He’ll give you no reason to fear him, and be patient when you’re afraid because of the reasons other men have given.”

“I know,” Sansa says. But knowing and believing are different things.

“And your Jon Snow will have him gelded if he even thinks a bad thought about you.” Val turns to flash a sly grin at her. “That is if I don’t get there first.”

Sansa’s heart clenches as if held in a tightening fist that this fierce, free woman should be willing to fight for her so, even as she barely knows her. Would Southron women do the same? _Had_ they? Sansa remembers the cruel, passive face of Cersei Lannister, the mannered indifference from Margaery Tyrell as Sansa had endured torments she never could have imagined. When she was a girl, all she’d wanted was to go South, to find a life she chose for herself. Strange that it took coming farther North than she’d ever been before to have any choice at all.

“My lady wife,” Tormund says when he approaches, an address that Sansa knows Jon coached him to use. It makes her heart clench again, that the boy she always called her bastard half-brother should care so deeply about her comfort. “Do you want to… Should we…”

“Retire?” Val suggests, her mouth twisting into an amused smirk.

“Retire.” Tormund seizes the word gratefully. That he should be nervous in his own way is endearing to Sansa, reassuring. This is something new they’ve chosen together. Sansa takes a deep breath and gathers all the courage she has in her heart, then extends her hand to her husband.

“I’m ready,” she says. The wonder of it is that she is.


End file.
